


I had the blues but I shook them loose

by mikkey_bones



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birds, Coping, Depression, Developing Relationship, Gen, Hiking, M/M, Military Backstory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his third day at work at the Shield Mountain Nature Center, Steve finds a baby hawk and meets Sam Wilson, a one-man raptor rescue team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I had the blues but I shook them loose

**Author's Note:**

> Largely inspired by [this tumblr post](http://americachavez.tumblr.com/post/78579465023/national-parks-au-with-steve-as-the-well-meaning). I thought "oh, this fic will be easy to write because I spend a lot of time at the nature center and I raise small birds." Unfortunately I know very little about 1) caring for raptors, 2) working at a national (or state) park, and 3) the military. But I wrote all this anyway. 
> 
> Apologies for any inaccuracies; also, warnings for depression and past character death.

The bird is sitting in the middle of the path, fluffed up and indignant and looking like it's just waiting to be picked up by the next passerby. Steve stares at it. It stares at Steve.

Steve looks around and thinks about what he knows.

The Shield Mountain Nature Center is located in a state park thirty minutes outside of the city limits. The terrain is mountainous but, at 7000 feet, not too high compared to the peaks of the Shield Mountain Range (part of the Rocky Mountains). It's a high desert biome with coniferous forest on the higher slopes. The park was created in 1984; the nature center founded in 1989. Steve learned all of this in his three week training session. Absolutely none of it has bearing on his current situation.

The bird makes a sharp screeching noise and takes a few clumsy hops away from Steve, nearly falling down. If need be, Steve thinks, he can capture it easily.

He radios Sharon.

“Hey, I'm on the Moore Trailhead and I'm staring at a baby hawk. Or something.” He's studied up on the flora and fauna of the area but he doesn't know much about baby birds. It could be a red-tailed hawk, he supposes, but it looks smaller, like a little falcon.

Sharon's voice is distorted by the usual walkie-talkie static, but Steve can make out what she says. “ _Take a few steps closer. Can it fly?_ ”

Fly? “It's a ball of fuzz with a beak and two feet,” Steve replies dryly, dutifully taking a few steps forward. The bird hops away, gives him a reproachful look, and lifts its wings a little. Maybe the gesture is supposed to be threatening. Steve finds it comical. “I can send you a picture.”

Sharon doesn't ask for a picture. Instead, she asks him, “ _You getting dive-bombed by angry birds of prey yet?_ ”

“What?” Alarmed, Steve looks around the juniper trees that dot the hiking area. “No, I don't see any other hawks around.”

“ _Hmmm_.” Sharon's hum is distorted enough that he can't tell what tone she's using. This is what cell phones are good for, Steve thinks, but they don't get the best service up here, especially on some of the further hiking trails, and the radios help them keep in touch. “ _Look for a nest nearby. If you can't find one, then hide yourself and watch him for a while_.”

Steve frowns, but he's already walking around the area and peering into trees. “How long is 'a while,' Sharon?”

“ _How hot is it?_ ”

“Pretty hot.”

“ _An hour. You've got plenty of water, right?_ ”

“I've got enough.” The nest-hunt unsuccessful, Steve settles himself behind a bush. The bird squawks at him—it's not fooled—and takes another hop down the trail.

It's a long hour, and Steve thanks the premonition that told him to wear a hat today. The past two days he'd been working indoors, mostly, manning the desk and talking to hikers and schoolchildren; this is the longest he's spent outside in the sun since the four-day training period when they backpacked through the entire park.

He takes a swig of water and brushes another few ants off his socks. Luckily they're not the biting kind. The baby hawk is now huddled somewhat miserably under a sagebrush plant. There's no sign of any adult hawk around at all. He radios Sharon again.

“You there? Still no sign of the parents. I bet the little guy's thirsty. What do I do? Do I have to leave him alone?” Steve's always had a soft spot for the underdog; it hasn't taken long for this little bird to win him over. But if the parents aren't around, Steve doesn't know what can be done.

“ _No_ ,” Sharon says decisively. “ _If nobody's watching him, we should take him in_.”

Steve stands, stretches, and looks at the bird. “So I have to catch it?”

He hasn't known her long, but he can almost hear Sharon's grin through their staticky connection. “ _Watch out for the talons_ ,” she says. “ _Even baby raptors can give you a nasty scratch. And once they grab you, they won't let go_.”

"Right," Steve says, resisting the urge to ask further questions. He clips the radio back on his hip and takes a step forward. The bird makes a screechy warning noise at him. He sighs. "I'm not gonna hurt you." He keeps his voice calm and even. "I'm trying to help you."

Obviously, it can't understand human speech, and Steve doesn't think his tone helps (though it's worked with dogs and horses and even people). As he moves closer it raises its wings and hops away. This might take a while, he thinks.

It does.

He ends up improvising—taking off his uniform shirt and tossing it over the bird, then bundling it up in an ungainly package. He's still got his white cotton undershirt on, so he's presentable, and now, with sweat in his eyes, scratches on his arms and hands (from the dry sagebrush branches, not the bird), and a mysterious bundle in his arms, he figures he looks more like a park ranger than ever.

Sharon says as much when he gets back to the nature center, once she's done laughing at him. "Come on," she adds, stepping out from behind the desk and flipping up the sign that tells visitors that the ranger on duty will be right back. "I'm going to take you to meet Sam."

"Sam?" Steve asks with a frown. The bird is warm but fairly quiet in his hands, though it screeched when he finally caught it and sometimes he can feel it shifting positions in the bundle of his shirt.

"Sam Wilson. Our wildlife manager," Sharon says. Steve follows her out of the building and down one of the garden paths. "And part-time wildlife rehabilitator. He takes care of the animals we find, or he gives them to other rehabbers. They've got a whole network in the area; it's pretty amazing. Anyway, I warned him we'd be coming."

Together, Steve and Sharon walk to one of the smaller buildings out past the gardens and the sheds where the rangers keep their supplies. Steve has only been this way once and he never actually approached this building. As they get closer he sees the sign on the front that says "Shield Mountain Nature Center Biological Management Station."

Sharon follows his gaze. "It's a fancy way to say that this where we do all the tracking and management of plants and animals in our park," she explains. "You know those water meters and insect traps we taught you how to check? This is where we send that data."

She checks the door. It's unlocked. "Good, he's here."

Steve feels the bird stir slightly in its shirt cocoon as he steps into the air conditioned building. The floor is cement; the walls are whitewashed cinderblock; it's like every other staff only building in the nature center. He looks with some interest at the posters on the wall. There's a big topographical map of the Shield Mountain State Park and an old poster of Smokey the Bear.

"Sam!" Sharon calls. "I've got a present for you!"

There's no response. Sharon shifts from foot to foot; she's unclipping her radio from her pocket when a man hurries into the room. He's tall, dark, and handsome, and those are exactly Steve's three first impressions of him. He's grinning and dressed in the park ranger khaki shorts and forest green shirt. "Is it actually a present, or is it another job?" he asks, looking between the two of them.

"Both, probably," Sharon says. "Sam, this is Steve Rogers; he's one of our new summer rangers. Steve, this is Sam Wilson."

Sam holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Somewhat awkwardly, Steve shifts the bird bundle to his left hand, then gives Sam a firm handshake. He sees Sam's eyes drift down to the shirt in his hand just as he's saying, "Nice to meet you too."

"So this is my present?" Sam asks, grinning and taking the bundle from Steve's arm. "Hey, little guy."

"It's some kind of baby bird," Steve offers lamely, already aware that Sam knows more about the subject than he probably ever will.

"Let's go take a look at it," Sam offers, jerking his head back towards the hallway through which he entered.

Sharon shakes her head. "I've gotta get back to the desk. We have a field trip coming in soon, and I'm doing their ed program. Steve," she turns to him with a smile, "why don't you stay for a bit? This is an aspect of the Nature Center we didn't discuss during training, and I'm sure Sam will be happy to tell you about his job."

Steve feels like the new kid in high school, awkward and out of place, but Sam shrugs, looking back at him and offering a smile. "Sure."

"Great," Sharon says, and turns to Steve. "Be back soon, okay? I'm putting Maria in the front but I'm going to need you later."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve says.

He's already realized that Sharon isn't used to his type of easy, soldierly obedience; she nearly blushes when he calls her ma'am. As she leaves, Sam turns and heads back down the hall. "So you've got the other car with the veteran's plates in the parking lot, don't you?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Steve, following behind him, raises his eyebrows. "What tipped you off?"

"Lots," Sam says as they enter another well-lit room. There are boxes piled everywhere, and two desks—one with a couple binders and a large, slightly outdated computer, the other clear except for some syringes and bags of liquid Steve recognizes as IV fluid. Sam goes to this second desk. "But we'll call it a lucky guess. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Iraq," Steve answers. "Two tours, and then I was discharged." There's more to the story than that, but he doesn't want to go into it right now; it's not the kind of thing you tell someone you've just met. "What about you?"

"Afghanistan, two and a half tours, pararescue," Sam replies, carefully peeling aside Steve's shirt and peering at the bird inside. Steve is impressed—both by his military record and by the easy way he handles the bird. "Huh, a baby kestrel," he says, half to Steve and half to himself. "I was expecting you to bring me some kind of dove. We’ve gotten a lot of those this year. Guess it's my lucky day."

So Steve had been wrong in guessing it was a red-tailed hawk, but right in guessing it was some kind of raptor. He knows from his training that kestrels are small birds of prey, very common in the area. They tend to feed on sparrows and other songbirds. He had no idea, though, that a baby kestrel could be so fluffy and ungainly when its parents were so sleek and quick.

"Where'd you find it?" Sam asks.

"Moore Trailhead," Steve replies. "I radioed Sharon, and she told me to check around for its nest or for any other birds nearby, in case its parents were still around. I watched it for an hour."

While Steve explains, Sam busies himself rummaging in the desk drawers until he pulls out a large leather glove, which he puts on. He grabs the bird's talons with the glove and pokes around its breast with his free hand. "Yeah, this little guy's pretty hungry," he says after a moment. "Seems like he's been down for a while." He gestures Steve a little closer. "See how his tail feathers are all beat up?" The tail, or what's grown of it anyway, is indeed scraggly. "Means he's been hopping around on the ground," Sam explains. "If a bird's flighted, or in the nest, his tail won't look that bad."

Steve nods. "So what's going to happen to him?" he asks. As Sam pulls out its wings, one at each time, to check how they extend and snap back into place, the bird is looking up at them with bright, gray-blue eyes, its mouth slightly open. Even though he's small, he looks like he's ready to lash out at any moment. Steve identifies with that, and he doesn't want this bird to die.

Sam covers the kestrel back up with Steve's shirt. "First, I'm gonna weigh him, and then I'm gonna hydrate him," he says, standing and grabbing a shoe box from one of the stacks of boxes. He lines the bottom with a paper towel, and puts it on the scale. Steve watches him stick the bird in the box, check the number on the scale, then take it out, checking the new number. "For fluids, we usually give them ten to twenty percent of their body weight," Sam explains, sticking the bird back into the box and rummaging around for a syringe. He draws up some fluid from a jar on the desk and then attaches a long rubber tube to the end of the syringe.

"We get leftover hospital supplies," Sam explains as he expertly opens the bird's beak, peering into its mouth before sticking the tube down into its throat. Steve watches with fascination. "So this is actually a catheter tube, but it's unused. The stuff expires before it's actually unusable, and then we've got an agreement that some of the stuff goes to us. Nonprofits, you know."

Steve actually doesn't know, but he can guess. The fluid goes down the bird's throat smoothly, and though it shakes its head a little as the tube comes out, nothing comes back up.

"There you go, little buddy," Sam says, depositing the bird neatly in the box and shutting it. He catches Steve's frown. "Don't worry, he'll be fine in there. It's dark and quiet, and shoeboxes aren't airtight. I'll check him in an hour or so, see if he's ready for food."

"And then what?" Steve asks curiously, looking around. He doesn't see any other birds in the room. Maybe this is Sam's first one of the season? But that doesn't make sense. There are birds all over the place.

"Then I feed him, and after I'm off work, I take him home with my other guys," Sam explains. He grins. "I've got another kestrel just about the same age as him, so I figure they'll get along fine. And then I raise them." He shrugs. "At least until they can fly and hunt, and then I let them go. Here's your shirt, by the way."

He picks up Steve's shirt and shakes it out, causing a few fluffy feathers to fall to the ground. The shirt looks intact, albeit wrinkled, but when Steve takes it, he notices a white streak of bird poop.

"Hope you can find an extra lying around," Sam tells him with a grin. "So how long has it been since you got out?" His gaze is even, frank. There's curiosity in it, but not the morbid kind of curiosity that Steve gets from people who weren't in the army. And he's not trying to tiptoe around the subject, either. Steve appreciates that. But he doesn't want to talk about it.

"A year. And a half."

Sam seems to catch his hesitancy and roll with it. "Cool," he says. "It's been five years for me. I'm still getting used to it." He stands.

As nice as Sam is, Steve doesn't want to do the whole 'reminisce with army guys' thing. He's never been into it. The army doesn't hold any fond memories for him, not anymore, and he's not about to pretend. "It was nice meeting you, Sam," he says. "I better get going, though. Sharon probably needs me back at the station." He turns and gets ready to head out of the building.

"Hey," Sam says.

Steve pauses, turns back around.

"I don't know what your workout routine is, but the trails here are great for jogging. I like going out early, maybe six or seven, before it gets too hot." Sam shrugs and crosses his arms. "You know. It's nice—fresh mountain air, open trails... good for bird watching, too."

After a moment, Steve nods and grins a little in spite of himself. "Thanks, Sam. It really was nice meeting you. Take good care of that little bird for me, okay?"

"Yeah, man" Sam says and waves as Steve turns around to continue his way out of the building and back to the nature center. "See you around."

\- - -

Steve falls into a routine. He takes Sundays off, but every other morning he's at the park by six, before the gates open to the general public and before it gets too hot. As the sun rises, he runs the trails, exploring the 478 acres of protected state land. He doesn't meet Sam on the trails for a whole week, until he's running along the Michael C. Emrys Memorial Trail at 6:35 a.m. (about four and a half miles into his run, according to a quick calculation), and he sees someone ahead of him.

He speeds up. "On your left."

Sam twists around to look at him, and then grins. "Hey. Long time, no see," he says, panting a little.

"Yeah," Steve agrees, slowing to fall into step with Sam. The trail, unlike some of the others in the area, is wide enough for three people to walk abreast. Steve can run next to Sam without worrying about shoving him off the trail. "Took your advice. It's nice, coming here early."

"Isn't it?" Sam asks. "It's a lot harder in the winter, though. Gets pretty cold. Snowy."

"Huh." Steve doesn't know if he's going to be around after this summer. There are two variables—whether he gets asked to stay, and whether he actually wants to stay. He likes it here, but everything is still up in the air, in a lot of ways.

After a moment, during which Steve thinks about the future, vast and featureless and stretching on in front of him, he realizes that they've fallen into step and into a slightly awkward silence. Steve decides to break it. "So how's that kestrel doing? The one I brought into you last week."

"Oh, him?" Sam asks with a grin. "He's doing great. Gets on really well with my other one."

"Can you tell it's a boy already?" Steve asks. He was curious about that before, but didn't really think about Sam's casual pronoun use. Now he's wondering if there's some tell, maybe in color or size, that differentiates the two from a young age.

Sam looks sheepish. "Uh, no. I just call it a 'him' out of habit. Most of my young birds are 'hims.' Maybe I should change that up a bit..."

Steve chuckles. "Right, okay. I was worried you were such an expert that you could tell them apart when I couldn't even tell what species it was."

"Well, this kind of expertise takes time, you know," Sam replies, managing to sound both humble and arrogant at the same time. Steve has a feeling he's being teased, and he doesn't dislike it. "But your little guy is growing a lot. Give me your number later; I'll send you some pictures."

"I will," Steve says, and he means it. He's glad that he met Sam on the trails; he's been thinking about going back to the wildlife building for a while, but never found the time.

They fall back into silence again, punctuated only by the sounds of their footsteps on the dirt path, and their panting. Sam seems more winded, but then again, Sam probably doesn't use endless jogging as a solution for his insomnia. In fact, Steve thinks with a little bitterness, Sam probably doesn't even has insomnia.

But Sam's a soldier, just like him. He probably does.

It's Sam who breaks the silence after a few companionable minutes. "How long have you been out? This is my usual route, and I just do the seven mile loop. Are you heading that way too, or are you gonna run some more?"

Steve doesn't actually have a set route today (he rarely does), so it's easy to shrug and say, “I was just gonna do the seven miles. Didn't really have a plan.”

Sam looks at him—Steve isn't sure what he's looking for—then grins. “Cool. You're probably gonna have to slow down for me. I've been bad about running lately. Out of shape.”

He's already slowed down for Sam, but Steve doesn't say that. “Not a problem. As long as we're jogging.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence again, and Steve wonders if it will keep up for the rest of the run. It's not that they've run out of things to say to each other, but more that they're each caught up in their own thoughts.

Sam breaks the silence this time. “So how are you liking work?” he asks as the trail splits up around a sagebrush. He takes one side, Steve takes the other.

Steve would shrug, but it's difficult when you're running. “It's not bad,” he said. “I like being outside all the time. And the air is clean. Different from where I grew up.”

“Oh yeah? Where's that?”

“New York City. Brooklyn, believe it or not.” He hasn't talked to any of his colleagues about his childhood. None of them are close enough for that. This is the first time he's mentioned his old home in a while, and the taste lingers in his mouth like something bitter. Like the taste of smog, or antiseptic, or gunpowder. He left all that behind.

Sam looks interested but not interested enough to ask any follow-up questions, and Steve appreciates that. “You're an East Coast guy, huh? Me too. Born and raised in Baltimore.” He grins. “Save your elitism,” he adds, probably in response to the look on Steve's face. “It wasn't _that_ bad.”

Steve laughs and then stops, surprised by his own easy reaction. “Okay, okay, sorry.”

“Anyway, when I got back from Afghanistan, the city seemed to crowded. Too claustrophobic, after all those mountains and all that desert. And too loud. You know?”

Steve does know. In the weeks after his discharge he rattled around his flat like a dried out husk of himself, jumping at sirens and the sound of car doors slamming. It was the fourth of July that made him decide to get out of the city for good. And he'd already applied for this job, anyway. It wasn't running away, he'd told himself. Just relocating.

Yeah, right.

Sam must take Steve's stony silence for agreement, because after a moment he continues. “Anyway, I somehow washed up here, used my G.I. money to do that three year bachelor's degree thing they offer, and found a job as a ranger, with the veteran's benefits and all.” He laughed. “Remember how bad things were back then? I was surprised I even got a job at all. Guess Uncle Sam was looking out for little Sam.”

Steve's laugh is a little more forced this time. His life is divided firmly into _before_ and _after_ and he doesn't talk about the “before” when he can help it. Sam's reminiscing makes him remember what it was like back then, thinking about school, thinking about money, thinking about... everything. Thinking about joining the army. At least it paid.

He realizes that some of his dark thoughts must be showing on his face when Sam slows and looks at him. “You okay, man? I hope I'm not talking too much about myself.”

“No, you're fine,” Steve says quickly, matching Sam's pace and slowing down with him. “I'm interested, I promise.” It's just been a while since he's had an extended chat like this. Maybe the last time was with his therapist. He shoves that thought aside and endeavors to gather the threads of the conversation again, to keep it going—and to keep Sam from asking questions about him. “So if you got the ranger job by accident, how'd you get into wildlife rehab?” he asks.

Sam waits a beat before responding, like he's not sure whether to press or not. But he doesn't. Steve wants to thank him for that. “Also by accident,” he replies with a grin. “I was out on one of these runs and I found this bird lying just off the path, staring at me. Its mouth was open and it kinda tried to claw at me, but it didn't get up and fly away. I didn't know what to do with it, but I didn't want to leave it. So I sort of grabbed it, and bundled it up, and took it back to the nature center.”

Steve nods. Their stories sound amusingly familiar.

“I asked Maria what I should do—you know, Director Hill—and she told me to put the bird in a box and take it down to the rehab center in the city. Gave me directions and everything. It was a slow day, so I just kinda went, and the guy there was friends with Hill and knew I was a wildlife biologist anyway, so he let me come to the back and see how they identified the bird and examined it and everything.”

“What was wrong with it?” Steve asks.

“Dehydration,” Sam replies. “And it was really, really hungry. Maybe a little sick. That was back when the drought was real bad down here, and the birds couldn't find enough to eat. So I watched them hydrate it, and get it back up on its feet. It was amazing.”

Steve listens intently. “Sounds pretty amazing,” he agrees.

Sam nods. “Turns out the bird was a prairie falcon, which—” He pauses and looks at Steve, then back at the trail. “Didn't plan on telling my whole life story today, but I might as well.”

Sam's resigned tone makes Steve raise his eyebrows. But he doesn't stop him. Something tells him that this story is as important for him to hear as it is for Sam to tell. So he waits.

“Back in Afghanistan I was in the Air Force, as a PJ. Think I told you that.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He's still impressed. He knows what kind of training parajumpers have to do to even get into the field.

“Me and my wingman—my best friend—” Sam begins, and the falters, with his words as well as in his step. Steve feels like he's seeing a familiar pain in Sam's expression. “It's dumb, but me and Riley said that we were like falcons. The peregrine falcon can reach the fastest speeds of any animal when it dives and, God, how dumb is that.” Sam gives a pained bark of laughter, puts his hand on his forehead, cards his fingers through his short hair. “It didn't help him much in the end. Our 'falcon speed,' or whatever, I mean. Got shot right out of the air on a routine pickup. I was flying the plane right next to him when it happened. Had to dodge the shrapnel. Wish I could say that was the last mission I had to fly, but they kept me going right until the end.”

Steve wants to comfort him, wants to say something that means both _I'm sorry_ and _I understand_ , but the story cuts too close, so he remains silent.

And Sam seems to be doing alright. “Anyway, turns out I'd found a falcon just sitting around in the dirt. A rare one, too. At least, they told me they didn't see many come into the clinic. I thought it was gonna die. But then, right after I'd pretty much given up, it just hopped right back up and tried to bite the guy who was hydrating it. I thought, damn, I wanna do that. Save shit. Like I hadn't gotten enough of it in Afghanistan. But this time, I'd be saving innocent things. You know? I wouldn't have to worry about something like, if I raise this baby sparrow, is it gonna go massacre twenty civilians tomorrow? God,” Sam repeats, and looks at Steve. “Sorry. I try not to, you know.”

“To talk politics?” Steve asks dryly. Sam is looking at him like he just spilled the beans on a terrible secret, but the story has actually made Steve more interested, rather than disgusted or annoyed. With vets, it's always a toss-up, which side they'll take when they talk about the war. He's starting to like Sam.

“Something like that,” Sam replies with a one-shouldered shrug. Something in Steve's expression is probably telling him that it's alright, because he continues. “So I asked the guy how I could get involved, and that's how I got started with wildlife rehab.”

Steve nods again. “That's a pretty cool story.”

“You think?” Sam grins. “First time I've told it to anyone. The whole thing, I mean. Everybody in this damn place knows parts of it.”

Steve matches Sam's grin and belatedly realizes that sometime during their conversation, both of them have slowed to a walk, one that's progressively getting slower. “Then you told it pretty well. I was on the edge of my seat.”

Sam laughs. “My dad would've loved to hear that. Man was a preacher, kept trying to get his kids interested in public speaking. Guess a bit of that rubbed off on me. So,” he adds, “I'll see you around?”

Steve looks up and sees that they're already in the parking lot of the nature center. Sam's building is hidden down a side road; Steve works at the main center, which is only twenty feet away. “Yeah,” he says. His surprise probably shows on his face. Two and a half miles seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

Sam chuckles again. “Right. Come out along that trail some time and maybe you'll see me around again. If I know you're around, it'll give me motivation to get out of bed on time. And I promise I won't talk your ear off next time.”

“Okay,” Steve says, and is surprised to find that he's already looking forward to the next time they can run together. “You'll have to get in better shape though,” he adds, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. “I'm pretty sure we walked the last mile.”

Sam sputters indignantly, but Steve laughs and eventually Sam laughs with him. “Alright, Rogers,” he says. “You win this time.”

Steve gives him an ironic salute, and Sam salutes back. (Steve wonders if anyone is watching them from the nature center, and what it looks like, to see two sweaty veterans joking around and throwing salutes in a parking lot at seven-thirty in the morning.

“See you around,” Sam says, just like the last time they talked.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, and grins. He hasn't smiled this much in a while. His cheek muscles are starting to hurt. “See you.”

\- - -

The summer heats up. It hasn't rained for weeks, and the underbrush is starting to yellow and crackle underfoot. Steve brings two bottles of water with him when he walks the trails, and they're usually both gone by the time he makes it back to the nature center.

He still does his morning runs, though, before the sun gets too high, joining Sam on his seven mile loop. At first, they'd only see each other twice a week or so; now they're seeing each other once a day. The Emrys trail is the best one to run anyway, Steve thinks. It's a long loop and well-maintained. That's how he justifies his preference, anyway, and the fact that he's basically stopped running anywhere else.

It's Sam who spots the plume of smoke, rising up in the far distance. “Aw, shit,” he says and stops in the trail, pointing.

Steve follows his gaze. At first it looks like a gathering of clouds, but it's too early in the morning for that kind of weather, and it's a low-lying flat, gray smudge, not white like the puffy clouds they've been seeing. “Smoke?” he guesses, glancing over at Sam.

Sam nods. “It's that time of year,” he says. “Hasn't rained in... God knows how long.”

It rained a little in May, Steve thinks, but then realizes that he can't remember how long it's been since he's seen a weather pattern other than clear blue-skied mornings and afternoons peppered with high, white cumulus clouds. He'd been enjoying the weather; now he realizes it has its drawbacks too. “Does this happen every year?” he asks. He still feels like an East Coast city boy, sometimes, even though he's been working here for a month and a half.

“More or less,” Sam says, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Some years are worse than others. Six years ago there was a really bad fire season. They closed all the parks. That was before I started working. But everyone still talks about it."

Steve looks at Sam, then back at the smudge of smoke on the horizon. He wonders how far away it is. He's never seen a forest fire before—never particularly worried about one, either. Even when the huge fires swept across California, he'd been all the way on the other side of the United States, and he'd lacked any frame of reference with which to conceptualize a giant fire. "Right," he says.

Sam watches the smoke for a few more seconds before turning back to the trail. "Let's keep going," he says.

Steve follows.

Director Hill calls an emergency meeting that afternoon, just before closing (after all the school groups have left). The smoke has remained an ominous signal on the horizon.

"We're calling it the Chaparral Fire," she says, standing at the front of the room and flanked by a red-headed women, arms crossed over her chest, and a short-haired man, sitting on a spinning office chair slightly behind her. "It started yesterday on BLM land. We're not sure of the cause yet, but so far, it's burned over two hundred acres. Fire crews are already in the area working to contain it, but the prevailing wind is blowing it south, towards us."

Sam is standing across the room from Steve (who is sitting next to Sharon); his arms are crossed and he has a grim expression on his face as he listens to Director Hill.

"We're requesting your cooperation as we work to fight this fire," the red-haired woman says, then introduces herself brusquely. "Natasha Romanoff. I'm with Incident Command for this situation. And that's Clint Barton." She gestures to the man in the chair. "He's one of our monitors."

"If the fire spreads, we might have to close the park and cancel our Junior Ranger camps," Hill says. "Like we did in 2008. We might also close the park if the dry weather continues and fire danger increases. Commander Romanoff will keep us updated about the situation. In the meantime, prepare to follow every safety measure possible. Trail walks will be increased to twice daily, to make sure visitors are observing safety protocol and no illegal activity is taking place."

Romanoff nods, her mouth a thin, strict line. "Illegal activity, at this point, includes lighting fires, fireworks, or smoking of any kind," she says. "We're also placing a moratorium on camping in the area, as well as controlled burns. That can wait until monsoon season."

"If the monsoon comes this year," Barton adds. Steve glances at him. He looks bored, but Steve's close enough to the front of the room that he can see the tension in Barton's shoulders that belies his apparent calm.

The meeting ends fairly soon after that. Steve imagines that the firefighters (and Director Hill) have more important things to do. But it's still fifteen minutes before it's time to close the nature center, so he ends up remaining in the briefing room with Sharon and Sam, who walked over to them as the firefighters walked out.

"At least we had a wet spring," Sharon says, talking mostly to Sam. Steve wasn't here during the spring; he was in New York, probably moping around as he applied for jobs—that's how he remembers it, anyway. "So it's going to be better than 2008."

Steve is getting the feeling that just about anything will be better than 2008. He feels the same, except his bad year was 2012. Just about anything, he thinks, would be better than _that_.

Sam shrugs. “I'm still worried,” he says. “But it shouldn't be too bad. There's more moisture than usual. More than last year, anyway. The wildlife is healthier.”

Sharon nods. “Steve, have you seen a forest fire before?” she asks, turning to him.

He shakes his head. “They weren't really a threat, uh, in New York City,” he says. Nor were they a threat in Iraq, at least where he was stationed. Or in Arlington, where he spent some time after getting out of the army.

“Well, hopefully you won't get the chance,” Sharon says with a slightly morbid grin. She stands. “I'm going to lock up the desk.” It's 4:50. There's really no point in keeping anything open for ten more minutes, especially since the center, and the trails, emptied out long ago with the summer heat.

Sam looks at Steve. “After I got here, I thought about being a hotshot,” he says. “You know, one of those wildland firefighters who jumps out of planes, works on the front lines. I figured I had enough experience.”

“Why didn't you?” Steve asks.

Sam shrugs. “Guess I just wanted a quieter kind of life,” he replies. When he stands, Steve gets to his feet as well. “See you around,” he says, his customary goodbye.

And the fire season drags on. Every week, they're brought in for staff meetings. Director Hill's mouth is pinched tightly at the edges and she says that they might have to close soon. Los Arboles Wilderness, just twenty miles north, has already closed. Shield Mountain has shut down the Moore trail—it's the longest, and the one that goes furthest north.

The Chaparral Fire gets worse before it gets better. The first week of the second session of the Junior Ranger camps is canceled, and Sharon scrambles to put together a one-week education program, assuming (hoping) the camp will resume soon. For three days in a row the air around the Shield Mountain Nature Center is thick and hazy and smells like wood smoke. It's even hazy in the city and when the sun sets, the smoke is thick enough that all Steve can see is a glowing red orb slipping below the horizon. For those three days, Steve and Sam don't do their usual run. When the rangers perform their twice-daily trail walks, they wear masks over their faces to protect their lungs from the smoky air.

Then Commander Romanoff drops by to visit a staff meeting and tell them the Chaparral Fire is contained—but they're not out of danger yet. It's been two months without any rain, and the entire mountainside is basically a tinderbox, waiting to light up.

“Today might be our last day,” Sam tells him. June is creeping into July and the only clouds are high, puffy, and ineffective. “For a while, anyway. If they close, they're gonna put us on part-time shifts, so I might not see you around.”

The thought is a bit more upsetting to Steve than he expected. “Oh,” he says. Aside from Sharon, Sam is the only coworker he would call a friend. And he hasn't really made friends outside of his work.

That, and he's realizing he values Sam's company more than he expected.

“But they'll probably extend hours anyway, in a week or so,” Sam says. “I've been looking at long-term forecasts. They say the rains are gonna come soon. Not that I trust long-term forecasts.”

“Right,” Steve says. “I'm gonna miss our morning runs, then,” he adds because he doesn't have much else to say.

Sam looks at Steve almost like Steve's words surprised him. Then he grins. “Yeah, me too. But hey, it won't be too long. And I'll still text you updates about your bird.” He claps Steve on the shoulder.

The next day, while Steve is doing his afternoon trail walk, he sees large, dark clouds gathering on the horizon. At six p.m., while Steve is driving down the mountain to get home, it starts to rain.

“Have you ever seen a desert rainstorm?” Sharon asked him a few weeks ago when they were both manning the desk. He'd shook his head. Now he knows what she meant—without warning, the few drops of rain on his windshield turn into _buckets_ of it, so much that he has to stop the car because he can't see anymore.

Giving into temptation, he gets out and holds his arms out by his sides, tossing his head back and letting the rain pound into his head and shoulders until he's completely soaked. It feels like some sort of baptism, or maybe an absolution. Steve's not religious. He doesn't really know the difference. Still, a lone figure standing next to the road, he laughs and laughs like he's a kid again.

The next day, Hill calls a staff meeting. The lines of worry on her forehead are gone. Everyone, in fact, looks rejuvenated from the summer rain. “It looks like the monsoon season is finally here,” she says. “So Shield Mountain Nature Center will be maintaining normal summer hours.” There's a round of applause.

Two days later, Commander Romanoff drops by again to tell them that the Chaparral Fire is out. For good.

“Congratulations,” Sharon tells Steve later when he passes by the desk. She gives him a wide grin. “You survived your first fire season.”

\- - -

“It's like, a photoshoot fundraiser thing,” Sam says as Steve watches him tape a poster onto the door. The poster advertises a WILD BIRD PHOTO SESSION that's taking place next Sunday. “Photographers around the area can pay to get close-ups of our educational birds. They get a cool shot, we get money, everybody's happy.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “And that's legal?”

“I mean, we have educational permits for all the birds,” Sam says with a laugh. “And we're sure as hell gonna lecture about wildlife safety while all the photographers are doing their thing, trust me. You should come,” he adds, handing Steve a flier.

“I don't really do photography,” Steve says, uncomfortable.

“Yeah, but you told me you liked drawing stuff,” Sam points out. “Ever drawn a portrait of a bird before? It's kind of cool. I imagine,” he amends hastily. “I don't draw. Can't, actually; I'm a terrible artist.”

He grins and, without really thinking about it, Steve grins back. “Drawing's not _that_ hard,” he says.

“Oh no, don't do that whole 'it's easy for Steve Rogers so it should be easy for Sam Wilson' thing,” Sam cautions him as he moves to the other glass door, putting up a flier there as well. “I get enough of that when you're trying to race me.”

“To be fair, you _have_ gotten faster,” Steve points out, leaning against the wall as he waits for Sam. He's still grinning. Sam always makes him smile a lot, even when he's trying to be in a bad mood.

“Look, you're not my mother. Or my drill sergeant,” Sam says, and turns to face Steve. “Seriously, you should come. We set up chairs and everything, so you can sit in the back. It's not like you have to even talk to anyone. Besides me. You've gotta talk to me.”

“Right,” Steve says skeptically, his grin fading.

Sam shifts, glancing down at the flier and then looking back up at Steve. “Come on. You don't have anything else to do on a Sunday afternoon, do you?”

Steve considers it. He doesn't go to church, and he doesn't work on Sundays either. Usually, he spends the day cleaning up around the house, thinking about cooking, maybe actually trying to make one of the dishes he sees on all the cooking blogs he follows.

“No,” he says in a considering tone. “I really don't.”

Which is how, next Sunday, he ends up back at the Shield Mountain Nature Center. The visitor center itself is closed (rangers work in skeleton crews on Sundays, and the trails are still open), but he follows the taped up signs until he gets to the outdoor education center, a pavilion in a shady, somewhat incongruous grove of cottonwood trees. There are rows of folding chairs set up, and at least four photographers standing around in the front with the birds.

He sees Sam with a large red-tailed hawk perched on his glove. That's probably his bird, the one he talks about sometimes, Steve thinks. There are a few other people too, all of them with birds—Steve recognizes a peregrine falcon, a great-horned owl, and a western screech owl. He's gotten better at identifying wildlife out here since he started work.

Steve sits down gingerly in the folding chairs near the back. There are a few other people sitting down too. Some of them have cameras and are probably waiting their turn to get close-ups; others look like visitors who saw the spectacle and were interested enough to come closer and listen for a while. The photo session has been going on for an hour already; Steve wonders if this is a good turnout or a bad one, and how many more people are expected. He hopes it's not too many. He doesn't really like crowds.

The tall, blonde woman next to Sam, the one holding the peregrine falcon, is talking about the Shield Mountain Wildlife Rescue Organization (SMWRO for short, Steve's gathered from reading the posters) and how it's a nonprofit organization that relies on grants and donations to continue its work. The photographers who want to get up close and personal with the birds have to make a donation too. Steve's not sure whether it's $25 or $50 but either way it's more than he wants to pay—the only camera he has is the one on the back of his phone, anyway.

His eyes scan the crowd again before looking back at the birds, who appear remarkably calm. Calmer than Steve himself, probably, but then again they're also probably used to crowds at this point. He watches the great-horned owl with mild interest. It's by far the biggest bird here, and the biggest bird he's ever seen from such a small distance. But soon his eyes are drawn back to Sam, who hasn't noticed him yet.

“Our mission here at the SMWRO is not only to take care of injured and orphaned wildlife,” the blonde woman is saying, “but also to educate members of the public about living with wildlife, and making the Shield Mountain area safer for both humans and animals.”

The bird Sam's holding is huge and gorgeous. It's true that Steve's never really drawn a bird before, but like Sam said, it couldn't hurt to try. His fingers twitch for a pencil and he pulls his sketchbook out of his satchel.

“Once again, if you would like to photograph these birds, we are requesting a small donation,” the blonde woman says. She looks like she's the leader of the group. Steve tunes her out as he opens his sketchbook.

It's fairly new, with only a few pages filled out. He bought it after he moved because he didn't—still doesn't—want to touch the one he had in Arlington. Or any of the sketchbooks he had before that. This one is pretty bland. He's been trying to avoid sketching out his memories. There's a few hand studies on the first page, then a half-finished outline of a face (when he realized whose face he was drawing, Steve stopped, but he couldn't bring himself to rip out the page). The rest of the drawings in the book are all landscapes. Here, there's always a view. That's what he tells himself when he starts drawing the curve of the mountains again, and refuses to draw people.

As he taps his pencil against the page, Steve wishes he'd sat down a little closer. He doesn't want to move now, though.

“—and this is Sam Wilson with Redwing, our female red-tailed hawk. When he's not with us, he works here, at the Shield Mountain Nature Center, as the wildlife manager.”

Steve looks up from the blank page when he hears Sam's name. Sam is waving to the crowd. He meets Steve's eyes and his smile gets wider. Steve is embarrassed and he doesn't know why. He glances away, and when he looks back, Sam is already launching into a speech about wildlife protection.

It's nothing Steve hasn't heard before. His attention drifts from Sam back to the bird, Redwing, and he starts sketching before he can talk himself out of it.

Drawing has always been a pretty steady habit for Steve, something he does when he needs to occupy his hands or his mind. In Iraq, it made things a little better. (He kept those sketchbooks.) In Arlington... he's not sure if sketching made things better or worse, but his therapist encouraged him. (He kept that sketchbook too, but he never looks at it, and every month or so he'll think about throwing it away. He hasn't tossed it yet, though.)

It's a bit like meditation, Steve remembers explaining to someone a long time ago. It puts him in a place where he can relax, think without thinking, figure out what the hell he's feeling. And it's private.

Which is why, twenty minutes later when the talks are over and Sam meanders over to him, Steve slams his sketchbook shut without even looking at the drawing that was taking shape. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Sam says with an easy grin. The red-tailed hawk is still on his arm. Its yellow glare is a little intimidating, and Steve gets to his feet without thinking. “I'm glad you came. I saw you drawing in the back. Get anything good?”

Steve knows this is an oblique way of asking to see his drawings but he's not going to take the bait. “It was nice,” he says instead. They've been friends long enough that he knows Sam knows when he's trying to avoid a topic. And he also knows that Sam doesn't press. That's a large part of why they're still friends. “This is the hawk you always talk about?”

“Oh, yeah, this is Redwing,” Sam says, lifting his arm a little. The bird is still fixing Steve with a piercing stare. “Birds have hollow bones, but they get heavy as hell after a while. I was about to stick her on her perch, but since we're taking a break, I figured I'd introduce you two first. Redwing, say hi!”

The bird doesn't react. Steve laughs. “She's a frightening lady.”

“She's not too friendly with strangers. Understandably, since she got shot.” Sam says. “It took me a while to get her to warm up to me, you know. I guess it helped that I was the one who set her wing and fed her and all that.” He shifts and takes a step back toward the front of the pavilion. “I really gotta rest my arm. Want to come with?”

Steve shoves his sketchbook into his satchel. “Sure.”

Sam leads him to the front, where he gently coaxes Redwing onto one of the large wooden perches that the group has brought with them. He takes off his glove and hangs it up, making sure her jesses are securely fastened to the perch instead of her arm. Redwing ruffles up her wings and settles without complaint.

“She seems well-behaved,” Steve comments.

“Oh, she is, when people are watching her. Loves to show off. She can be a bit of a brat when it's just us.” Sam laughs. He stays near Redwing's perch, and Steve, who wants to continue this conversation more than he wants to get out of the limelight, stays too.

“How long have you had her?” he asks.

“I got her the year after I started working as a rehabber,” Sam said. “Got permitted to work with raptors right away, pretty much, since their main raptor person had just gotten married. That's Bobbi, by the way,” he added, gesturing at the blonde woman, now talking to a group of photographers. “Bobbi Morse. Anyway, her wing was broken pretty bad, the wound was infected, and we knew it wouldn't heal right. But we needed another hawk for our education programs and she was a fighter, so we didn't want to put her down anyway.” Sam gestures to Redwing's right wing, which droops noticeably compared to the left. “So she can't really fly on her own, but she gets by fine with me.”

Steve nods.

“Anyway, you let me talk about myself too much,” Sam says. “If you don't stop me, I'll talk you to death, probably,” he said. “That's what my dad always used to tell me.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “So what's new with you?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, privately thinking he wouldn't mind if Sam really was the one who talked all the time. But he knows that's not how relationships work, as much as he wishes it was. “You know I don't have an exciting life.”

“So what, you sat at home until you came here?” Sam asks. He has a joking tone but there's something in his eyes Steve would think was worry, if he didn't know better.

Steve shrugs and grins. “More or less.” Realizing he sounds sadder than he feels, he adds, “I'm thinking about getting a dog. But I'd be worried about it, since I'm gone all day.”

“I bet you could convince Sharon to let you bring your dog to work,” Sam suggests. “She likes you. It might work.”

Steve laughs. Sam always makes him laugh and each time it gets a little less startling. “It's not Sharon I'm worried about. What would Director Hill say?”

Sam laughs too. “Don't worry, I'm pretty sure she loves dogs. She can't really refuse you.”

Steve's already opened his mouth to reply when Redwing stretches out her wings to their fullest capacity, flapping a few times. She's got a wingspan of at least four feet and Steve is startled enough that he takes a large step back.

“She's just stretching,” Sam says, giving the hawk a fond look. “She knows she's gonna have to get back to work soon. How long are you staying here?”

“I don't know,” Steve says. He's already looking for an excuse to leave but he's not sure whether that's because he actually wants to leave, or just out of habit.

Sam raises his eyebrows but moves on. “Then let me introduce you to Bobbi.”

The blonde woman is done talking to the photographers and Sam waves her over with one of his infectious grins. “Bobbi, this is Steve Rogers. He's one of my coworkers. Brought me an adorable baby kestrel. Steve, this is Bobbi Morse. She taught me everything I know.”

“More or less,” Bobbi agrees with a grin and holds out her hand to Steve. He takes it—her grip is firm. “Nice to meet you, Steve. I've heard a lot about you. Your bird, at least. Sam's got a soft spot for kestrels.”

Steve glances at Sam, who shrugs and grins. “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Morse,” he says, remembering Sam had mentioned her marriage.

Bobbi's eyebrows shoot up. “'Mrs. Morse'? What am I, your kindergarten teacher?” She grins. “Call me Bobbi. You work here?”

“Yeah, I'm one of the summer rangers,” Steve replies, a little embarrassed.

“Fresh meat,” Sam says. “He's doing well, though. Hill's gonna be mad if he doesn't stay.”

That's the first Steve has heard about his future at the nature center, and it seems hopeful. He still hasn't decided if he wants to stay on after the summer is over. He's leaning towards yes, but only because he doesn't have anywhere else to go, and that's probably not the best motivation.

“Well if you find another bird on the trail, take it to Sam again, not me,” Bobbi says and laughs. “I'm swamped.” She turns and claps Sam on the shoulder. “Back to work, big boy.”

Sam gives an exaggerated sigh and waves Bobbi away. “Looks like I've gotta suit up again,” he says, rotating his shoulder and stretching out his neck before he slips the heavy leather glove back on his hand. “Are you gonna stay to the end?”

He looks hopeful, but Steve's had about enough for the day. Sketching brought enough bad memories that he feels more anxious than calm; he imagines himself jangling like a raw nerve. He doesn't even know what his drawing looks like yet. So he shakes his head. “I think I'm gonna head out for the day,” he says.

“What, gonna do some more nothing?” Sam asks, a sharp tone showing beneath his usual good humor. Steve frowns, and immediately Sam sobers up. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn't mean it that way. I just thought,” he begins and runs a hand over his close-cropped hair.

Steve wants Sam to finish the sentence. But Sam doesn't press him for information and he feels like he should return the favor. So he apologizes. “Sorry. I just... I haven't drawn anything in a while.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I get it.”

 _Do you_? Steve thinks, but he knows Sam does get it. “Yeah. I'll... see you around though.”

Sam musters a grin and waves him off. “Go on, then. Did I tell you your kestrel is starting to fly? I'll send you a picture of him later today.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, and feels a smile tugging at his lips in spite of himself. He waves and then turns around, trudging back down the dirt path towards the parking lot. His satchel is heavy on his shoulder and eventually the curiosity is too much. He hadn't been paying much attention to what he was drawing, but he wants to know how the sketch came out.

He moves over to the side of the trail, careful for joggers or other passers-by, and pulls out his sketchbook, opening to the latest page.

The subject is a surprise to Steve and it takes him a few seconds to figure out what, exactly, he's sketched. There's Redwing, of course, in the center of the page, but the red-tailed hawk is small and lacks detail. It's Sam Wilson who is the real subject, his shoulders delineated by a few strong sweeps of Steve's pencil, his face rendered in careful detail. Even in a few minutes Steve managed to capture the gentle candor, the earnest intent behind his smile.

 _Oh_ , Steve thinks. _Oh_ and _it's been a while_ , with a kind of dull resignation that's slowly blooming into interest. He looks at the drawing again, then back down the path. The educational pavilion is out of sight but he imagines Sam is still standing there, Redwing on his hand, waiting patiently for photographs.

Steve could go back, take a seat, wait until the end of the photo session, then walk up to Sam and talk to him. “Hey,” he'd say, or maybe, “What were you saying?” or, “Why did you want me to stay?”

It's too late for that though, and Steve knows himself well enough to realize that he's no good for socializing right now. So instead, he closes the sketchbook, mechanically replaces it in his satchel, and continues down the path.

He can sketch—and think—just as well at home, anyway.

\- - -

The next time they go for a run, Steve watches Sam more carefully than before. Sam acts normally, but Steve finds himself dwelling on little things, like the way he quirks one eyebrow just a little when he's waiting for Steve to answer a question, or the slight tightness to his mouth when Steve doesn't answer.

Steve realizes he's been pretty far gone for quite a while.

He thinks about ignoring the feeling. That would be the easy way out—to squash it down, to stop watching Sam, to run different trails sometimes and let them drift apart. It wouldn't take much. He's only got the rest of July and August to continue work, and then he can find a new job, move to a new city, say “We'll stay in touch” but gradually stop texting back. The idea is so appealing that it scares him, and that's what jolts him out of his inaction—he realizes he doesn't want to be the person that he's becoming.

In Arlington, his therapist told him he needed to start opening up and letting other people in. That whatever hurt came from trusting people would be worth it. Steve ignored her advice at the time, just like he'd ignored a lot of things. But now it's coming back like a prophecy. So a week after the photo session, as they wrap up their morning run, he asks Sam out to dinner.

He looks surprised. “Who, me?” he asks, looking around with an exaggerated gesture as if to make sure Steve isn't talking about anyone else.

“I mean,” Steve says, backpedaling quickly, “if you don't have time, or don't want to go, it's fine, but I was thinking of this sports bar place—you don't have to drink, but it has great burgers.” He's spent so much time working himself up to ask that he never really considered what to do if Sam said no.

Sam laughs. “I'm just messing with you,” he says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “It sounds great. Tonight?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, glancing at Sam's hand, which is still on his arm, and then back at Sam. “If you're not busy.”

“Too busy for this? I don't think so. This is the first time you've asked me to hang out with you outside of work,” Sam says, grinning and finally letting his hand drop. “I'd be stupid to say no.”

“Oh,” Steve replies. Sam's comment feels like a gentle reprimand even though Sam probably didn't mean it that way, and it makes him a little more nervous, if anything. “Great. I, uh, I'll pick you up?”

Sam considers the offer. “Okay. Work ends at five, but I've gotta feed my birds and shower, probably. Seven? How's that sound? I'll text you directions to my place. It's near here. If the drive's too long, just tell me; I can drive myself.”

Steve shakes his head. “It's fine,” he says. For a while he's been privately curious about where Sam lives and where he keeps his birds, and this is his chance to find out. That, and it's not like he's got a lot to keep him busy in the city. He usually only drives to the store, the gym, and the nature center, so he's not worried about wasting gas. He grins. “I'm looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Sam says, grinning back. “Though I'm worried you're gonna challenge me to an eating contest or something.”

Steve laughs. “Am I really that competitive?”

“Seriously, man?” Sam raises his eyebrows and gives Steve a skeptical look. “'Am I really that competitive?' Don't give me that crap.” He laughs and claps Steve on the arm again. “See you at seven. I'll put on a nice shirt.”

It's moments like these that make Steve think (hope, really) that Sam's interested in him in the same way Steve is interested in Sam. The touches, the smiles, the teasing—maybe he's just friendly. But you never know until you try. And Steve is tired of not trying.

\- - -

Sam's house is halfway up the highway to Shield Mountain, closer to the nature center than to Steve's apartment in the city. It's a nice place—surrounded by pine trees that Steve knows were planted here, because the elevation is too low for them to grow naturally. There's a few other houses around too, spaced out widely with lots of land in between. Steve wonders if Sam gets lonely, and how this kind of house compares to city life.

He imagines it's quieter, but harder to get groceries. Not a bad trade-off.

When he knocks on the door Sam opens it almost immediately, looking good ( _really_ good) in a red and white plaid button down shirt and corduroys. “Hey,” he says, grinning. “I'm surprised you didn't get lost. It's kind of out of the way. How was the drive?”

“Not bad,” Steve says honestly. “You made it sound like you were living the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, you're from New York, aren't you?” Sam asks, laughing and stepping aside to invite him in. “I figure since you're here already, I can take you out back to have a look at your kestrel. Unless you made reservations?” He's suddenly tentative.

“Nah,” Steve says immediately, stepping inside. “I've got time.”

The house isn't messy by any means, but it's also not kept to the precise standards of military cleanliness (emptiness, really) that Steve uses in his own apartment. There's books and binders and papers scattered around on the table, an old blanket thrown across the couch, and a few pictures and potted plants here and there. Sam catches Steve looking around. “Not bad for a bachelor pad, eh?” he asks. “Come on, the flight cages are out back.”

Steve follows Sam through the house, trying not to snoop too much, though he can't help his curiosity. It feels nice here—certainly nicer than his own apartment, which is still as sterile as a hotel room even six months after Steve moved in. Steve knows Sam lives alone now, but he wonders if anyone used to share this house with him. It seems big enough for two.

(That's a dangerous thought and Steve shoves it out of his head before he can continue with it.)

“Alright,” Sam says, opening up the back door and holding open the screen door for Steve. The backyard is mostly packed earth, with several wood-and-wire structures, covered with plastic tarp, scattered around. “It's not much to look at,” Sam says. “But this one is Redwing's.” Steve follows him to the nearest cage and peers inside to see the yellow eyes of the red-tailed hawk staring right back.

“I've got a couple of Cooper's hawks in that one,” Sam says, gesturing to the cage across the way. “They're in that nasty teenage stage, so let's not bug them. Here's a few doves,” he adds, taking Steve to the next cage. 'A few' is an understatement; there's at least eight birds in the flight cage, perched on various branches wired to the walls of the cage. They all noisily take flight when Steve and Sam approach. “Doves are pretty high-strung, but easy to raise,” Sam says. Finally, they approach the last cage. “And here's your little guy. Along with another little guy.”

Steve peers through the wire and sees nothing but the cement floor of the cage, the metal water bowl, and a few branches at first. He frowns.

“Try looking in the back, up by that box,” Sam says, catching his confusion. “They like hanging out up on top of it.”

Steve follows Sam's directions, casting his eyes up, and sees two feathery shapes in the corner in the shade, right where Sam suggested. He squints, and as his eyes adjust he can gradually make out the shapes of the kestrels. He's seen the pictures that Sam texts him, but it's still surprising to him that the ball of white and gray fluff he found on the trail has transformed into a sleeker, bigger bird of prey.

“Kestrels don't get much bigger than that,” Sam says, leaning against the cage next to Steve. “They've still got a bit of fuzz, too, but they're growing up well.” He laughs. “I'd let you in to get a better view, but I just fed them, and I don't want to scare them again so soon.”

“Oh no, it's fine,” Steve says immediately, turning from the kestrels to look at Sam. His face is awfully close; only about a foot of distance separates them. And Sam's smile is, as usual, infectious. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

“No problem,” Sam replies. “I mean, it is my job.” He laughs, and there's a frozen moment where Steve is almost overwhelmed by the desire to kiss him, like he's a teenage boy all over again. But it passes. “Let's get going. I don't wanna make you late for dinner.” He turns away from the flight cage. Steve spares one last glance for the birds, who haven't moved, and then strides after Sam.

The car ride is easier than Steve expected. He'd begun to dread spending about twenty minutes alone in a car with Sam, but he knew he shouldn't have worried. Sam fills up the time with idle chatter and it's amusing enough that Steve almost forgets to be nervous. By the time they reach the sports bar, Steve has almost convinced himself that the night is going to be okay.

And it is. Dinner goes smoothly. They order burgers and fries and talk about craft beer and wildlife biology and that little kid in the Junior Ranger camp who wandered lost around the grounds until he walked into Sam's office.

“I was a little surprised,” Sam says with a grin. Steve heard the story from Sharon (who was tearing her hair out about losing Teddy), but this is the first time he's hearing it from Sam himself. “But hey, whatever, I've got nieces and nephews. So I showed him a couple of the birds I had with me and then brought him back to the nature center. I think the other kids were jealous.”

Steve laughs. “You sure took your time bringing him back, though. Sharon was starting to organize search parties. We almost called the kid's parents.”

Sam shrugs. “I gave him a love of nature, you know, or something like that. Watch, he'll grow up to become a ranger or a state senator or something, and when he's interviewed, he'll say he was inspired by that one mystical guy he met when he got lost in Junior Rangers camp.”

“A park ranger _or_ a state senator?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Hey, I'm just giving him options.”

Steve laughs again. It's a little strained, though. He feels like conversation throughout the night has been too easy. Sam has been perfectly open and honest with him, but Steve is still holding back. It's partially because he's ashamed—he should have opened up by now—and partially because he doesn't want to ruin whatever good thing they have.

But relationships are supposed to be based on honesty. And, in a roundabout way, he's tired of being a coward.

He thinks about opening up to Sam right in the restaurant, but this isn't the kind of story you tell in public. (Steve knows he's making too big a deal out of this but at the same time it's the first time he's told this story to anyone, really, and he doesn't know what's going to happen.)

They split the bill.

Steve waits until they're on the highway, halfway to Sam's place, to say, “I want to tell you about my time in the army. Is that okay?” The sun is setting and the bright light is slanting into Steve's eyes through the windows; his heart is pounding in his throat.

Sam glances at him. Steve is too busy driving to catch the expression on Sam's face, which is quickly smoothed into a look of neutral interest. “That's fine with me,” he says. “But only if you want to.”

“I—yeah,” Steve says. He takes a breath. “But I can't do it while I'm driving.”

There's a slight bend in the road ahead, where there's a dirt area big enough for a couple of cars to park. Steve wonders if it's a trailhead or just a spot where people get out of their cars to admire the view. He slows and pulls into it, parking the car. The sudden silence is a bit daunting, so Steve starts to talk.

“I've actually never told anyone the whole story,” he says. His therapist at Arlington doesn't count because she had access to his files, so she knew it all already. “But I... feel like I owe you.”

“You don't owe me anything, Steve,” Sam says quickly, and although Steve appreciates the sentiment he wishes Sam wouldn't. It's hard enough to start this as it is.

“I know,” he says and runs a hand over his hair. “I just—I just need to do this.”

Sam doesn't look too happy with that wording either, but to Steve's relief, he lets it go. “Alright,” he says. Steve wishes the calm in his voice was as infectious as his smile. “I'm listening.”

“Right.”

There's a long pause where Steve gathers his thoughts and tries to stop the sick, twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach. It's the same feeling he got when he stood on that mountain with the wind in his face, when he met with Major Fury the next day, when he stood in a too-crisp suit at the funeral, when he stepped off the plane at Arlington. It's a familiar feeling but he still hasn't gotten used to it.

Sam doesn't say a word while Steve is wrestling with himself and if anything it makes Steve like him more. There's a few minutes of silence. Finally, Steve takes a deep breath and dives in headfirst.

“I killed my best friend,” he says. It always helps to say that first, because he believed it for so long and some part of him still thinks that's true. And now Sam knows the worst part of everything. But he doesn't let that phrase linger in the air. “At least, I couldn't save him,” he amends. He licks his lips and continues. “We were at Kirkuk Air Base—Forward Operating Base Warrior, a little ways outside the city. The train was late. That should've tipped us off, but you know how your head just bakes in the heat.” He ran a hand over his hair, remembering it close-cropped and covered with sweat. “They'd destroyed the track a few miles ahead of us. I don't know who. It doesn't matter. A lot of people hated us and I can see why. We just showed up, took over, acted like we owned the place—”

Steve pauses and glances at Sam, whose expression is attentive but still. “Sorry. I'm changing the subject.” He shifts and deliberately places his hands in his lap so he won't twist them together anymore. “Six of us were on patrol that afternoon, just dicking around. We'd been going a little stir crazy stuck in base. It was our first time out all week.” He takes another breath. “Coming up to Kirkuk, the railroad runs along the side of a mountain. There's a road next to it. We had two Humvees. Gabe, Bucky—my best friend—and I were in front. Dum Dum, Izzy, and Monica were in the other one behind us. We were just driving.”

He takes another breath. “Bucky saw it first. The dust cloud. We thought it was the train—hadn't heard anything about the tracks being out—but we geared up anyway.” He swallows. “It wasn't the train. I still don't know what group—I mean, I know they told me at some point. But I couldn't... It didn't matter at the time. Still doesn't.”

Steve stares fixedly at his hands. Sam hasn't said a word. Steve isn't sure whether he wants Sam to talk, just to prove he's still there, still listening, or whether Sam's voice would sap whatever courage he has left. He _has_ to get this out. At this point, it's almost a test. He has to prove that he can talk about this to someone new, someone who hasn't read all his files.

“On the other side of the tracks, opposite from the road, there's a sheer cliff. They must have rigged the place before we got there. It wasn't a hit and run. It was more of an ambush. They got Monica's car with an IED. We caught half the blast and rolled. I managed to get out over the top, duck and cover. Gabe too. But Buck was on the other side. He got pinned—half under the car, half over the cliff.”

Steve swallows. There's a reason he never talks about this, never thinks about it. In his mind he's already halfway back to Kirkuk, with sand and smoke in his eyes and his throat, half deaf from an explosion, screaming Bucky's name until he's hoarse, shoving ineffectively at the two-ton frame of the Humvee.

“Monica and Izzy were gone. Dum Dum got clear and got out his gun. He and Gabe covered for me while I tried to get Bucky out. But there was a second explosion—I don't know what it was or where it came from. But it rocked the Humvee enough that Bucky got lose. Only,” Steve swallows, “only most of his weight was over the cliff anyway.”

His hands are clenched in his lap so tightly that he feels his nails digging into the meat of his palms. There's a tightness in his throat and he wishes he hadn't eaten so much for dinner, because right now it's sitting like a cold and heavy lump in his stomach.

“He told me to get out. But at the same time he held out his hand. He didn't want to die. None of us wanted to die, that day. He held out his hand but I'd _listened_ to him, I'd backed up already. I couldn't hear right. I was half in shock. I thought, I don't know. Maybe I thought that he'd found a way to get himself out of this, that he was telling me to move so he could save himself.” Steve takes a deep, shaky breath. “He hadn't, of course. I backed up and when I shifted my weight I felt the whole Humvee move. It tipped him over the edge. And I looked at him and he reached out to me but I was too late. I didn't grab him. If I'd stayed, I could have saved him, maybe. If I hadn't listened.”

Steve's throat feels raw, like it had on that day, after he'd screamed himself hoarse. He scrubs at dry eyes. “We survived. Gabe and Dum Dum and I. I... don't remember what happened. I know backup came. I... They never found his body. A couple of months later they had a funeral. Empty casket. I wasn't there.” He forces himself to relax his hands, spreading them out flat on his thighs. “I was pretty useless after that. Withdrawn, nightmares, you know. Medic said PTSD. I was gonna put in my papers to get decommissioned but Major Fury got me out before that with an RIF. He got to pick and choose the soldiers they got rid of, and I was one of them. I stopped in Arlington, worked on recovering, then I went back to New York for a while, and now... I'm here.”

Sam still hasn't said a word. As far as Steve can tell, he hasn't moved either. Now Steve turns to look at him. He's not sure what expression he's wearing on his face but he knows it's somewhere between anguish and desperation. His gaze drifts back to his hands as he tries to smooth over the awkwardness, bring the conversation back to safer ground (if such a thing exists anymore). “Sorry. That was... a lot. Thanks for listening.”

“Hey,” Sam says, and Steve looks up instantly. “It's getting a little stuffy in here. Let's go outside.”

Steve lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. “Yeah, okay,” he says. His car is small, and it's dark and cramped inside and he knows if he makes himself sit here any longer without driving it will just bring back bad memories. He opens the door, fumbles at his seat belt, and steps outside like he's coming up for air.

The air is cool now that the sun is setting, disappearing over the horizon in a blaze of pink and red and gold. It's absolutely beautiful. Sam comes around the side of the car to join him. Instead of watching the sunset, Steve watches him. Finally, Sam turns to meet his eyes.

“Do you still think it's your fault that Bucky died?”

“Yes,” Steve says automatically, because in some twisted way that's what he wants to say. Life is simpler when you have something direct and immediate to blame, when the responsibility doesn't spiral out through a web of orders and choices and history. But that's not really how the world works. “No,” he adds after a moment. “Sometimes. That's not really an answer, is it?”

“No, it's not,” Sam says, and though he's using an easy, mild tone of voice, there's a brittle edge to it. “No wonder you don't like talking about the army, man.”

Steve grins and it feels forced, even though it's not. “It wasn't exactly the best experience. But I... I think I'm getting better. I don't know. At least I can get out of bed in the morning.”

“I know how that feels,” Sam says. “Took me months to get out of bed, when I got back. Sometimes I still... you know. It gets easier.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, finally looking back at the sunset. “It does.”

There's another long silence, but it feels more comfortable this time. Steve lets himself relax against the side of the car. He feels exhausted, like he's run ten miles, and his legs are shaky. At the same time, he feels inexplicably, undeniably relieved.

 _Sometimes, sharing your story can make you feel better_ , his therapist had told him. Now Steve finally thinks he understands what she meant. He has a lightness in his chest that even his exhaustion can't take away from him.

“Thanks for telling me,” Sam says after a bit. Maybe he feels like he hasn't said enough yet. “I appreciate it. Seriously.”

Steve glances over at him again. The last red-gold light of the sun highlights Sam's features, lingering on the curve of his jaw, the smooth lines of his lips, the slight hollows of his cheekbones. Steve wants to trace the sunlight with his fingers.

“It's fine,” Steve says when he realizes he's been quiet too long. “Thanks for listening. I know I... I'm working on getting over it. Getting better.”

Sam turns to grin at him. “Baby steps, man.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, feeling the corners of his mouth lifting in an answering grin. It's strange how the world hasn't stopped after he told his story. He can still smile. The sun is still setting. He still wants to kiss Sam.

What _if_ he kissed Sam?

“Hey,” Sam says. He's moved a little closer and is looking at Steve with evident concern.

Steve blinks. “What?”

Sam grins again. “You're zoning out on me. What are you thinking about?”

There's only so many brave things Steve can do in one day. Before everything, maybe when he was back in college, it would have been easy for him to reach out, touch Sam's cheek, slide his hand to the back of Sam's neck, and bring him in for a kiss. But things aren't so easy anymore.

“Nothing,” he says, looking away. “We should keep going. I've never driven this road in the dark before.”

Sam shrugs. “There's a first time for everything,” he says, but he moves around the side of the car anyway, sliding back into the passenger seat. Steve doesn't know whether he's relieved or disappointed. He gets into the driver's seat and starts the car back up.

“It took me a couple years before I could talk about Riley,” Sam says after a few minutes. He's leaning back against the headrest and looking out the window; Steve can't see the expression on his face. “Actually, the wildlife rehab thing helped a lot. Animal therapy. You know? Made me feel like I was doing something worthwhile. Making it up to Riley, because I couldn't save him. Or... whatever.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to get me to become a rehabber?”

Sam laughs. “No, oh, hell no,” he replies. “Unless you want to. I just meant, I dunno. It's easier when you're not sitting on your ass, when you feel like you've got something worthwhile to do.”

Steve thinks about the crunch of his hiking boots on gravel trails, the way the Junior Ranger kids looked up to him when Sharon took him along on their day trips, how the baby kestrel felt warm and alive wrapped up in his shirt as he carried it back to the nature center. (He thinks about Sam.)

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It does.”

They make it to Sam's place after the sun sets but before the blue and purple fades from the sky. Steve can barely see Sam in the half-light as he parks the car in Sam's driveway and turns towards him. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “And listening. Everything.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Sam says. Though he's unbuckled his seat belt, he's making no move to leave. “We should do this again sometime, you know? Next time I'll pick the place.”

“Okay,” Steve says, grinning a little. “Sounds like fun.”

“I'm serious,” Sam says. He's leaning a little closer. Steve feels his insides knot up yet again, but in a good way. This anticipation is light and excited, not like his cold and heavy dread earlier, before he told his story.

“Me too,” Steve says. Earlier, he decided he wasn't brave enough for this. But maybe it doesn't take bravery. Maybe it just takes a little bit of daring. He's always been reckless. “And—Sam. Look. I've been thinking—no. I've wanted to kiss you for days now, probably, so...”

Sam grins. Steve would have been able to hear the smile in his voice, even if he couldn't see it. “Oh, really? Because I swear to God, I've wanted to kiss you for _months_.”

His words send a little electric shock down Steve's back, but before he can reply, Sam is already leaning in. Steve registers Sam's fingers on cheek before Sam kisses him and all of his thoughts fly out the window.

He kisses back like he's drowning and Sam is the lifeline, grabbing onto his shirt and pulling him even closer. It's Sam who breaks the kiss first, pulling back and letting his fingers ghost through Steve's hair. “Hey,” he says.

Steve smiles, relaxing his grip on Sam's shirt until he's just got a palm resting on his chest. “Hey. That was nice.”

“Yeah. We've gotta do _that_ again sometime too. But I should get going. I'm gonna check on the birds one last time before it gets too dark.”

“Right,” Steve says. Sam's not inviting him back to the house or anything like that and honestly, he's glad. He doesn't want to take things too fast, and they've got time. He moves his hand to Sam's face, feeling the light scratch of stubble under his palm, and leans in for another kiss. “See you tomorrow.”

“See ya,” Sam says, squeezing Steve's shoulder and grinning at him before getting out of the car. Steve licks his lips and waits for Sam to walk up the driveway to his door. He starts the car when Sam waves at him and slips inside.

On the drive back home, Steve feels impossibly light. He can't stop smiling—or touching his lips—and he even turns the radio on. If the station played any songs he knew, he probably would have sung along. But everything is new and unfamiliar, so he doesn't get the chance.

\- - -

For once, Steve's mind lets him sleep in—which is a slight problem since today is a Thursday and he has to get to work. Instead of jolting awake at five-thirty, like he's used to, he rolls over leisurely and checks his phone, only to find out that it's already seven-thirty a.m.

He's missed the morning run, then, and it's a disappointing thought even as he scrambles to wash up and pull on his uniform. He wanted to see Sam again, but now that Sam isn't here with his easy smile to reassure him, Steve's getting nervous again.

By the time he makes it out the door, protein bar in hand, and slides into his car, Steve is thinking that maybe it's a good thing he didn't see Sam first thing in the morning. What if Sam's having second thoughts? What if Steve's having second thoughts?

(He's not. At least, he doesn't think so.)

He's ten minutes late, but Sharon smiles when she sees him. “Late night?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, belatedly realizing he forgot to comb it. “What?”

“Sam said you two got dinner last night,” she says, standing up. “Why haven't you taken me anywhere?”

That's... actually a good question. Sharon is friendly, supportive, open, easy to work with—the thought's just never crossed Steve's mind before. A month ago, he would have rejected the offer. Now, he thinks it's alright. “Let's get a coffee sometime,” he says. “Sam says I should get a dog and convince you to let me bring him to work.”

“That's bribery,” Sharon says, but she laughs. “We're taking the Junior Rangers out again today. Janet came in early, so she took over your trail duties. She says getting stuck with the kids is your punishment for being late.”

“Sorry,” Steve says. He's actually sorry.

“I don't mind. You've been on time every other day, so I figure I can cut you a little slack. And the kids don't come until nine, so we've got half an hour at least.” Sharon smiles at him. “You could make me coffee right now.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Am I your secretary or something?”

“You did get here late,” Sharon says, giving him a pointed look. The effect—and whatever guilt it might have instilled in him—is ruined when she laughs a moment later. “I'm just kidding. But I would really like coffee.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You're gonna hold this against me forever,” he points out, but he doesn't mind. There are worse things to be guilty about.

“As long as it works,” Sharon says, and he hears her laughing again as he turns and heads to the staff room and the old, broken down coffeemaker.

The Junior Rangers camp lasts from nine to two, with a short lunch break, and it's just as exhausting as all the other times Steve went out with Sharon. He doesn't know how she does it, or where her boundless energy comes from, but he appreciates the distraction of looking after the kids, because it's better than sitting in the nature center and thinking endlessly about Sam. Today, they've taken a van out to one of the higher trails, a mountainous trek where the kids learn about rock formations and local wildlife, and then try to catch insects.

“Once I had a kid catch a tarantula hawk wasp,” Sharon says. She's sitting on one of the large rocks on the side of the trail. Steve is standing in the meager shade next to her, water bottle in hand. “She had no idea what it was. I'm just glad she was good with the net, because that thing was mad...” She shudders.

“How long are we staying out here?” Steve asks, checking his watch. Their lunch break, starting at twelve, has turned into an extended exploration session. He's nearly lost sight of the kids a few times, and he's had to herd them back towards the path several times.

Sharon checks her watch too. “Fifteen minutes, tops. We've gotta leave time to drive back and let them get all their stuff together. Might as well start rounding them up now.”

“Roger that,” Steve says, taking a final swig of water as he straightens up. His plans are interrupted by one of the younger kids, Scott, running up to him.

“Ms. Carter! Mr. Rogers!” he says, breathless. “Jean found a bird's nest!”

Steve and Sharon exchange a look. “Where is she?” Sharon asks, getting up. “Did she touch it?”

Scott shakes his head. “No ma'am.” He's already bouncing up and down, ready to get back to wherever Jean is waiting with the nest. As soon as Sharon stands up he's already scrambling back into the bushes.

Sharon follows and Steve, lacking anything better to do, tags along behind them, wondering what Jean has actually found. He and Sharon are both surprised when the redheaded girl pushes aside the low-hanging branches of a juniper tree to reveal a downed bird's nest.

“Oh, wow,” Sharon says, squatting down to look at it. The nest is half on its side, like it fell, and there are two baby birds huddled up against the trunk of the tree, watching her warily. They're wrinkly-looking with pink beaks, and covered with gray feathers. When Sharon moves the nest she finds another baby bird lying dead on the ground.

“Oh, no!” Jean cries.

Steve bites his lip and then glances at her. “It's not your fault,” he says, though he doesn't think that's exactly what she's worried about. He looks back at Sharon. “Are we taking them in?”

“I've never seen babies that look like this before,” Sharon says, looking around. “It's pretty hot today, and we're not getting dive-bombed by angry parents... I wonder how long this nest has been down.” She hesitates long enough that the kids get an idea of the situation.

“We can't just leave them here,” Jean says, a pleading note in her voice.

Scott joins in immediately. “They'll _die_ if we leave them here!" he says.

Sharon gives Steve a helpless look. Steve grins and shrugs a little. Personally, he wants to take them in—the birds are adorable, in a grumpy looking way, and he's already thinking about handing them off to Sam. About seeing Sam in general.

“Right,” Sharon says with a long-suffering sigh. “Jean, Scott, you stay with me. Steve, can you round up everyone else? I'll get the birds and meet you on the trail.”

“Sure,” Steve says. Rounding up the kids is fairly easy. It's hot and everyone is getting tired. Even Johnny, who is by far the most adventurous of the group, doesn't have much of an attitude when Steve calls him back in.

As he's making sure he has everyone, Sharon emerges from the bushes, with dirt on her legs and a few sprigs of juniper on her hair. She's holding her open lunchbox carefully, and when she gets closer Steve can see the nest inside.

The kids crowd around, clamoring for a closer look, and it takes them ten minutes to give a quick explanation, sort everyone out, and head back down the trail. It's always easier going downhill than up when you're hiking and today is no exception; they make it down without incident except for a loud argument between Luke and Danny over whether Superman or Batman would win in a fight.

When they pile in the van, Steve takes charge of driving while Sharon gives an impromptu presentation on what to do when you find a baby bird on the ground and how to handle wildlife safely. Steve listens as attentively as the campers, even though he's already gotten parts of the speech during his ranger training and at Sam's photo session.

“So if you find a baby bird on the ground, what do you do?” Sharon asks as Steve pulls into the staff entrance of the nature center.

“Put it back in its nest!” Kitty says.

“And watch it,” Danny adds at the same time Luke says, “Only if its parents are there.”

“What if you can't find its nest?” Sharon asks.

“You make sure it's in a safe area and you watch it to see if the parents are still taking care of it.”

Sharon grins. “Right. And what if the parents aren't taking care of it?”

“ _Then_ you call somebody,” Scott says.

Steve turns off the car. “Alright, everybody out,” he says.

“Good job today,” Sharon adds, shepherding the kids out of the car. Steve brings up the rear after doing a quick once over to make sure that no one forgot anything in the van. Once he found an iPod, and another time he found someone's inhaler. But today there's nothing but the usual trash—plastic baggies and crumpled papers that they'll clean up after the kids leave.

He lets Sharon be in charge of calling Sam, and takes the Junior Rangers out to the parking lot where their parents will pick them up. It's nearly two-thirty by the time they're all gone, and he hurries back to the Nature Center to find Sharon at the desk and Sam leaning on the counter, looking at the birds.

“Kids are gone,” he says as they both look up at him.

“Hey,” Sam says. “I missed you on the trails today.”

The only reason Steve wasn't there was because he hadn't gotten up in time. Belatedly, though, he realizes that it might have looked like he was avoiding Sam. And he had thought about it. But for once, it hadn't been his intention. “Sorry,” he says. “I overslept.”

“He was even late to work today,” Sharon says with a grin, and Steve catches a flash of surprise in Sam's eyes before it's covered up by his usual nonchalance. “So now that he's back, what do you say?” she continues, turning to Sam. “It's a slow day. I can spare the two of you for an hour or so.”

Steve frowns. “What are we doing?”

Sharon turns to him. “Sam's going to take the birds—he says they're baby scrub jays, actually—down to the wildlife clinic, and I thought it might be fun if you came with him.”

Steve turns to meet Sam's eyes. “Is that okay?”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Why wouldn't it be?”

It's been a while, but Steve is familiar with the way they're dancing around each other and around the topic of what happened last night, and what that means for their relationship. He doesn't like this uncertainty, and he imagines Sam isn't fond of it either.

“Good point,” he says. “I'm looking forward to seeing it.”

He smiles, and after a moment, Sam grins back. “Alright then,” he says. “Let's get going.”

They transfer the birds from Sharon's lunchbox to a cardboard box. Sam throws away the nest. “They're usually full of bugs and germs,” he says in response to Steve's frown. “Hard to clean up, too. Don't worry. They'll be fine without it.”

Sam drives a two-door Dodge Ram pickup that looks like it's seen better days. “Still runs like a dream, though,” he adds as Steve sits in the passenger seat and buckles up. “More or less.” He grins and hands over the box. They lined the bottom with a few paper towels and taped the lid shut, but Steve can still hear some scrabbling when the birds move around.

“How far away is the clinic?” Steve asks as Sam starts up the car.

Sam shrugs. “This time of day? Thirty minutes, tops, if we're lucky. Getting back here might take longer. That's when rush hour starts.”

“'Rush hour,'” Steve repeats and laughs. What locals call 'rush hour' here is nothing compared to the traffic jams he's been through. The same probably holds true for Sam, who also grew up back east.

Sam laughs too as they head out of the parking lot, but doesn't say anything else. The silence between them isn't awkward, but it's full of unspoken questions. From the day they met, Sam's always been good at not pressing him too far or asking too much. Now, though, Steve realizes that his courtesy is a double-edged sword. It means Steve takes things his own pace and can feel more comfortable about it. But it also means that Sam is often left hanging, confused and unsure of where he stands.

Steve has spent a long time being selfish. That's not a bad thing. It is what it is. But now, he thinks, he needs to start giving back. He glances out the passenger window, feeling the cardboard box firm and solid in his hands. Then he takes a deep breath and looks back at Sam. “So,” he says. “About last night...”

Sam gives him a quick, surprised glance before turning his eyes back to the road. “Yeah?”

“First of all, I'm sorry.” Steve gives a slightly sheepish grin.

This time, when Sam turns to look at him, his expression is more confused than surprised. “Sorry for what? I meant every word I said.”

“I know,” Steve says, though he's glad to hear it anyway. “So did I. That's not exactly what I'm talking about—sorry, I'm being a little dramatic.”

Sam glances at him again and raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything.

Steve laughs. “Yeah, I know. I just—I realized this morning I haven't exactly been fair, you know? In relationships, you're supposed to be meeting halfway, or something. But you've always gone further for me than I have for you. You've given more, I guess, I mean. So I'm gonna try to be better about that.”

Sam doesn't look at him this time. “You know, nobody's keeping score,” he says.

“I know—” Steve begins, but Sam holds up his hand to stop him. Steve shuts his mouth and lets Sam continue.

“If you meant what you said, I mean, if you wanna keep this up, you're gonna have to stop the random apology thing.” Now he turns, to flash Steve a slight grin. “I mean it. I'll tell you when there's something you should be sorry for. I'm a big boy. I can handle this.”

Steve laughs. “But still,” he said, “you deserve better.”

“ _And_ ,” Sam says, “I get to decide what I deserve.”

The box on Steve's lap rustles, and one of the nestling scrub jays lets out a hungry squawk.

“See?” Sam turns for a moment to grin at him again. “He agrees with me.”

Steve puts his hand over the top of the box. “Right, fine,” he says. “No more putting myself down, fewer apologies. But you have to stop being so nice. You—”

“Me?” Sam interrupts, turning to give him an incredulous look. “ _Nice_?”

“Oh, come on,” Steve says, and actually laughs out loud this time. “You're the nicest guy I know, I think.”

“And you're the most gorgeous guy _I_ know, and that's a fact,” Sam replies, raising his eyebrows at Steve and making Steve blush all the way up to his hairline. But he can give as good as you get.

“So what, you don't have a mirror at your place?” he retorts, and Sam laughs so hard that for a second Steve is worried he'll lose control of the car and they'll go careening off the road. But he manages to calm down before they do much more than swerve a little. “Sorry—I know, no apologies, but I feel like I just put both our lives in danger.” Sam is still laughing a little but he nods, so Steve continues. “Just don't let me get away with being too much of a jerk. At first it was good, that you didn't push me when I didn't want to talk. But I think... sometimes I just start to wallow in it, in all of it, and then I start to be a bit of a jerk, and...” He shrugs. “You don't have to put up with that.”

Sam looks over at him and nods, his expression slowly becoming more serious. “Right,” he says. “Now that I'm not worried you're gonna bite or fly away or anything, I might be a little more strict.”

There's still a hint of a smile in his eyes, enough that Steve can tell—at least, he's _pretty sure—_ that Sam is teasing. “Are you comparing me to one of your birds?”

“Who knows?” Sam asks with an air of exaggerated innocence, reaching for the radio. “You just told me I didn't have to put up with this, so I'm not going to.” He turns it on. Steve recognizes the local oldies station. He keeps the radio fairly quiet, probably because he doesn't want to disturb the birds on Steve's lap, and glances back over at Steve. “I hope you know you've created a monster.”

Steve laughs. “Oh, I think I'll live,” he says. “At least you've got an okay taste in music.”

“'An okay taste,'” Sam repeats and scoffs, but it's not much of a protest, and they ride the rest of the way to the clinic in an easy silence. Sam keeps his eyes on the road, and Steve looks out the window, though he sneaks occasional glances over to the driver's seat. This is nice, he thinks. This is really, really nice.

The clinic is less nice—not because of the people or the location, but because it's sweltering as soon as they open the door. Sam hasn't even had time to call down the hall before they're greeted by a sweaty-looking volunteer.

“Hey, Verity,” Sam says. “What's up?”

“The A/C broke down yesterday, and we haven't gotten anyone in to fix it yet,” Verity says, sitting down at the front desk and pushing limp hair back from her face. “We've got fans in the back but this room isn't a priority, sorry. What did you bring me this time?”

Sam gestures for Steve, who places the cardboard box on the desk. “Two baby scrub jays. Nestlings—they've still got sheathes on most of their feathers. Cute things. We, well, he,” he jerks his thumb at Steve, “found them up by the nature center. The nest was down and there was a dead one nearby.”

Verity writes all this down busily. “Did you hydrate them yet?”

“Nah. I figured I'd let your volunteers do the honors.”

“Thanks,” Verity says with a laugh. “We've got too many people and not enough animals today. Not enough fresh air, either. I'd invite you back there, since you're a ranger and all,” she says, now addressing Steve, “but it's really not pleasant right now.” She turns to Sam. “Will he be back?”

Sam grins. “Probably. But we should get going now. We took our sweet time driving down here and I don't wanna get stuck in traffic. I'd love to stay and help, you know...”

Verity gives him a skeptical look. “Liar,” she says, and smiles.

“See ya,” Sam replies, laughing.

“Have a good one,” Steve adds. Verity waves them off, and Steve follows Sam back to his car. “Working here seems like fun,” he comments idly. “When the air conditioning is working.”

Sam grins. “It's a good way to kill some time, yeah. Too bad you didn't get to see the actual clinic, though. It's small, but pretty cool.” He starts the car and the radio comes back on. “There's always next time though, right?” he adds, looking over at Steve.

Steve considers the possibility of the future. “Yeah,” he says. “There is.”

\- - -

Autumn is a feeling that comes in the air, drifting in on cooler breezes and earlier sunsets, before it's a reality. Steve usually sleeps with his bedroom open now, and several mornings he wakes up cold, wrapped tightly in his blankets. The sky takes on a deeper shade of blue. The last Junior Rangers class graduates and, Steve assumes, goes back to middle school.

Director Hill calls him into her office on August 25. “Sharon and Janet say you've done a stellar job this summer,” she says as soon as he sits down on the other side of her desk. (He feels like he did when he was a kid getting called into the principal's office again, only now there's less dread and more excitement.) “Sam, too. It seems like you get along well with your coworkers, and they like you too.” She smiles and slides over a sheaf of papers to him. “So I'd like to offer you a full-time job. You can work at the Shield Mountain Nature Center for the whole year. Your duties might change, but there are always opportunities for promotions, and if you want to go back to school, we can probably work something out along those lines as well.”

Steve takes the papers and skims the top page. When he'd started this job, it had just seemed like a way to pass the summer while trying to figure out the rest of his life. Now, he thinks, he's got things pretty well covered, at least for the next couple of years. After that, who knows?

In Arlington he spent his days thinking about how his life had ended that day on the cliff. It's still a little scary to think in months instead of days, in years instead of weeks.

He's silent long enough that Director Hill clears her throat. “Steve?”

“What?” Steve looks up, then grins sheepishly. “Oh yeah, sorry, no, I would—I would love to keep working here. Thanks for the offer. Where do I sign?”

The paperwork takes nearly half an hour and when Steve emerges from the office, he's ambushed by Sharon, who was waiting in the hall. “She gave you the job, right?” Sharon asks. “Did you accept?”

“I did,” Steve replies. “Please welcome your newest permanent ranger.” He gives her a lazy salute. “Hill says you still have to be nice to me,” he adds as he heads down the hallway, back to the staff room.

“I'll try,” Sharon says with a smile, falling into step beside him. “So what made you stay?” she asks after a slight pause. “Love the job that much? Or... the company?”

Steve knows that Sharon knows about him and Sam. Hell, with the way they act, the entire staff probably knows. He's surprisingly unbothered by that fact. “I'm not doing it for him,” he says. “Or, more like, I'm doing it for me. And if he wasn't here, I... probably would have made the same decision. It just would've been a little harder.” He hopes that's true.

“I get it,” Sharon says.

At the beginning of the summer, Steve's first instinct would have been to think _no, you don't get it, you never will get it_. But he likes to think he's moved past that now. “Yeah?” he says instead, and opens the staff room door for her.

“I started as a summer ranger a couple years ago. Signing on full time was a big decision for me, too. But I don't regret it,” she adds, smiling at him. “For what it's worth, I don't think you will either.”

Steve smiles back. “Thanks.”

Sharon makes them both cups of coffee. The caffeine gets him through the day in a pleasant buzz of energy, until it's six o'clock and he's in Sam's pickup truck, on his way to Sam's house. Intimacy came suddenly and easily and now Sam's place feels more familiar than his own apartment.

Steve tells him over dinner. “I signed on for the rest of the year,” he says, twirling his fork in the spaghetti Sam made them. “For a couple of years, actually, at least. Hill gave me the offer today. And the contract.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really?” he asks. They haven't talked much about whether Steve wants to stay or go. It's a subject that both of them have been avoiding. Until now. “So what was the deciding factor? When did you figure it out?”

Steve takes a bite of spaghetti and chews it thoughtfully before answering. “Probably that night in my car, when I told you everything, and you told me how it helps to have something good to do, to make you get out of bed.”

“Right,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows all the way up.

“It's not _because_ of you, of us,” Steve says, waving his fork to illustrate his point. A bit of sauce spatters on the table and he winces. He was raised better than that. “Sorry.” He wipes it up. “I just, it made me think about how this is the first time since Iraq that I'm doing something that actually makes me _want_ to get up in the morning. Something I'm looking forward to. And I thought, it would be a shame to lose that.”

Sam nods, looking a lot less skeptical.

Steve grins. “But thinking about how I'd get to see you every day definitely helped.” Sam laughs at him, and Steve knows he's made the right choice.

They make out in front of the TV that night, sweet and slow, with Steve resting back against the armrest of the couch and Sam straddling him. They don't get much further than that (though Steve ends up with stubble burn on his face and neck anyway). They're taking thing slow. Steve prefers it that way. He's better than he was, but he's not all the way _better_ , and he thinks Sam feels the same way. No matter what, they've got a good thing between them, and Steve sleeps in Sam's bed, face buried in the pillows, one arm slung loosely over Sam's waist.

He wakes up when Sam puts his cold feet all over his legs, and suddenly the arrangement isn't so nice anymore. “What,” Steve groans into the pillows, grabbing blindly for his phone. He cracks a bleary eye open and checks the time—5:45, fifteen minutes before his alarm. “ _What_.”

“Come on, wake up,” Sam says. “We've gotta release the kestrels today, remember?”

Actually, Steve had forgotten. He pushes himself up with a groan. “Coffee?”

“It's brewing. Come on. We can get out before coffee, right?” Steve doesn't respond, just oozes out of bed and runs his hands through his hair. “Well, I can,” Sam amends with a grin, tossing Steve his undershirt. It hits him in the head.

Slowly, Steve pulls on his shirt. “Where are we going?” he asks, getting up and grabbing his boxers, shorts, and uniform shirt. “Not far, right?”

“Just in the backyard,” Sam says as Steve heads to the bathroom. That's a couple of acres of land, Steve knows, so they could just be opening the flight cage doors, or they could be taking a long trek through grass and shrubs. He splashes cold water on his face and brushes his teeth.

“I'll be out back,” Sam calls through the door. “Just meet me there.”

Steve gives a garbled agreement, speaking around the toothbrush in his mouth. He takes enough time to pour himself coffee (and have a few sips, burning his tongue), before pushing open the back door and heading into the yard.

“What took you so long?” Sam asks. He's over at the kestrel flight cages, and he's got a cardboard box in his hands. “Your little guy nearly mauled me when I caught him. They're both in here,” he says, lifting the box.

“Now what?” Steve asks, looking around. The sun hasn't risen yet, but the horizon is pink and blue and bright. The air is cold and raises goosebumps along his arms. It smells like sweet grass and dew. He takes a sip of his coffee and turns back to Sam. “We just open the box?”

“We'll walk a bit, and then we'll open it,” Sam says, grinning at the coffee cup in Steve's hand. “Didn't I tell you that you could have some later?”

Steve shrugs. “I'll have some now _and_ later.”

Sam laughs and begins to trek away from the flight cages, stepping high to avoid the prickly heads of the yellow grasses and whatever loose patches of earth the plants conceal. Steve follows his lead, coffee in one hand. The cool breeze plays across his face and wakes him up just as much as the caffeine.

They stop about two hundred feet away from Sam's house. “This is probably good enough,” Sam says, looking around. “I've released plenty out here, and they don't tend to come back to the cages once they're out. It's a good year, too. They'll have plenty to eat.” He places the box on the ground.

“So we just open the box?” Steve asks, staring at it. Ominous scrabbling noises are coming from the inside. Clearly the two kestrels aren't very happy cooped up in there.

“No, _you_ just open the box,” Sam says, holding out his hand for Steve's mug. “I've released a lot of birds this year. Now it's your turn. You found the guy, after all.”

“One of them,” Steve agrees, but he hesitates before handing his mug over. He's not sure why this is so daunting. He's a little afraid the birds will try to attack him, sure, but more than that... He looks at Sam. “They're really ready?”

Sam makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Who's the expert here, me or you?”

“Fair,” Steve replies, and approaches the box.

“Just take the lid off slowly, and angle it away from you. They'll fly out where the opening's biggest,” Sam advises. Steve glances over to see him sneaking a sip of coffee.

The cardboard is cold under his fingers and he makes sure he has a good grip on the lid of the box before lifting it up (angled away from him, like Sam said) and taking a big step away. The birds don't fly out at once. Instead, they seem a little stunned by the sudden influx of light and fresh air.

“Go on!” Sam says, waving at them. “Get going!”

One of the kestrels glances at him and then spreads its wings, flapping clumsily a few times before gaining speed and launching out of the box. The other kestrel takes a few more seconds to get its bearings, then it too is speeding out and away.

Steve watches until the birds are just specks in the violet-blue sky. “So what's going to happen to them?”

Sam returns Steve's mug and picks up the box and the lid. “No idea,” he says. “I don't band them or track them or anything. But they're strong, and they can fly and hunt for themselves. And they're not alone.” The empty box in his arms, he stands next to Steve and stares out at the hills that stretch before them. The impending sunrise lines the hills with gold. “It's always better not to be alone,” he adds after a moment, turning and grinning at Steve.

Steve smiles back. “Come on, let's go back inside. It's cold and I want more coffee,” he says, turning around and beginning the trek back to the house. Then the realization strikes him and he turns around to give Sam a look. “Are you comparing me to a bird again?” he asks.

“Us,” Sam corrects, grinning widely behind him. “I'm comparing _us_ to birds. Keep up, man.”

Steve rolls his eyes and turns back around, continuing to walk to the house. Before he met Sam, he never really thought about birds. He never really thought of himself as a bird-like person, either. Not for the first time, he's surprised by how much he doesn't mind.


End file.
